


don't you need it? don't you want this at all?

by rarmaster



Series: haven't had enough [4]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Bodysharing, Gen, SO, Time Loop, Time Travel, also other things happen but like. those are spoilers, but mithos is well within spitting distance of sanity so that's kind of nice!!!, colette gets to deal with martel's memories, mithos gets to talk to his sister, so zips mouth shut, suicidal ideation (for a sentence)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarmaster/pseuds/rarmaster
Summary: The end of the loop draws near. Mithos makes his decision.(continuation of a time looping Lloydseries)





	don't you need it? don't you want this at all?

“Hey, Lloyd… Honey…”

Zelos’ voice pushes at the edges of Lloyd’s brain, coaxing him into the waking world. Lloyd moans and tries to ignore it. The embrace of sleep is so delightfully cozy and warm, he doesn’t ever want to move. Never, ever, ever—

“Fuck this, can I just smack him awake?”

Sheena’s voice…? Mm, it can wait, Lloyd’s good right here.

“Give him a minute, Sheena.”

“Give him a minute?! Colette’s _missing!_ ”

That snaps Lloyd awake. Panic stirs his synapses, firing them all off in haste to bring him to consciousness as fast as possible. He jolts upright—he was already upright? He’d… _fallen asleep in Zelos’ lap?_ Shame turns his cheeks red, especially since Zelos doesn’t look like he slept much ( _and, holy shit, falling asleep_ here, _after the conversation he and Zelos had last night—_ )

But then Sheena’s words ring like gongs in his mind again and he snaps his attention to her—

“What do you mean Colette’s gone?” Lloyd demands. “She’s—” He looks out the window. Early morning. Hard to judge the exact time, but the rest of the party will likely be returning, soon. Lloyd’s done this enough times that he barely needs a clock to keep track of when things are going to happen. Anyway. Colette. “She normally wakes up early. Maybe she’s just…”

“She left a note,” Sheena declares, and shoves a piece of paper into Lloyd’s face.

\- - -

There’s a tap at her window.

Colette _can_ sleep now, which is an incredible blessing, but she’s also quite grateful she can also choose to not sleep without it really hurting her body, because tonight has been restless and she’s so full of thoughts and worries about how this journey is going to end ( _Lloyd’s nervousness rubbing off on her, some_ ) ( _he’s been so nervous, since this journey began. One of these days she’ll sit him down to talk about it and she’ll get a straight answer_ ), that she doesn’t think sleep will come to her if she tries, so even though it’s nearing into obscene hours of the night, Colette’s willing to investigate.

Especially since the tap comes again, somewhat more urgent.

“Hold on,” Colette calls, cheerily. If it’s some creep she can punch them, or if necessary, cast Angel Feathers. So she has no qualms about making her way over to the window and unlatching it, pushing it open—

“Oh, fuck,” comes a startled, somewhat strained voice. A second later Colette has realized what happened. The window opens outward, and there’s really nothing but the windowsill to perch on, on this side of the inn, so she probably whacked her visitor in the face. Oops.

“Sorry?” Colette calls.

Before she can think to peer out the window to see if her visitor has been knocked into the snow below, slender fingers have grabbed the windowsill.

“No it’s, fine,” comes a voice Colette recognizes.

And then Mithos Yggdrasill is hauling himself up over the window’s ledge.

Colette staggers back, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her chakrams aren’t anywhere easy to grab, but she starts gathering her mana for—she isn’t sure yet. Something.

“Whoa, hold on,” Mithos says, putting his hands up in a gesture of peace. ( _As if he cannot do incredible damage with just a thought alone. Colette saw what he did to Altessa. And to Tabatha—_ ) “Please, I just want to talk.”

“To _talk_?” Colette demands, the notion incredulous. “After what you did earlier tonight—you betrayed us! You hurt Altessa! You hurt _Genis!_ ”

Mithos doesn’t react at all until she mentions Genis, and then he flinches—almost imperceptible, but she has angel senses, now. Mithos’ eyes squeeze shut a brief moment before he opens them again, hands still raised, face set. He looks. Not apologetic. Faintly annoyed.

“I know,” he says, voice quiet. There is no regret on his face. “So if you want me to go, I will. But I have… a favor, I wanted to ask. Can you at least hear me out? I promise not to hurt you.”

Colette hesitates, scowling. She should probably cast Angel Feathers anyway. Maybe shout for Lloyd and Sheena and Zelos—but Mithos will just run, won’t he? And… Somehow, right now, he seems different from the boy who lashed out just hours ago, not a trace of the somewhat-manic laughter as he kicked Yuan, not a trace of his anger or coldness. Mithos looks… tired. He looks so tired.

( _Colette wonders, briefly—has he even slept, in the past 4000 years? He does not need to, if he is an angel. But what an awful way to live one’s life…_ )

“…alright,” Colette says, letting her gathered mana dissipate. “You can talk.”

“Thank you,” Mithos says, and he drops his hands. He doesn’t look directly at Colette.

( _If he hated Tabatha so much for looking like Martel, Colette wonders if he hates her, too._ )

“Well?” Colette prompts.

Mithos takes a second to pick his words. A long, long second.

Finally:

“I have a favor I want to ask of you,” Mithos says, words carefully chosen and carefully articulated, the lilt of his voice gentle even if his eyes are hard. “I want to speak to my sister.”

Colette tenses on reflex. “I’m _not_ sacrificing myself for Martel, Mithos!” She feels bad, shouting, feels strange, fighting against the purpose she was raised to serve ( _the purpose that_ Mithos _raised her for, she cannot forget that, though it’s complicated when she knows Mithos as the boy from Altessa’s with bright curiosity and gentle laughter, hard to reconcile that boy with Yggdrasill, harder still to reconcile both of those with the boy standing before her, who seems to fall somewhere between the two_ ) “I- I _wish_ you could save her, I really do but, I refuse the price to be my own life. I’m sorry, Mithos.”

He shakes his head, eyes heavy. He doesn’t smile. “No, no, I’m not asking that,” he corrects, tone tight like maybe he’s short on patience. “Well, I suppose I am asking you to offer your body as a vessel for her soul, but I only temporarily, I promise. Lloyd told me she won’t want to stay. And Origin confirmed that what Lloyd says is true. But if I can just…” He gets a little distant, a little lost, for a few seconds. “If I can just speak with her… If I can just ask her a few things…”

Colette blinks a few times, trying to study an answer out of Mithos’ words simply by deciphering the lines on his face. She finds before long that she isn’t going to get anywhere like that, and so she’ll have to ask, instead—Where to start? Well, with Lloyd, of course.

“What do you mean—” she begins, but that’s not quite right. “Why would Lloyd know anything about Martel?”

Mithos raises his eyebrows, smirking faintly.

“You mean he hasn’t told you?” he asks.

Colette shakes her head.

“Lloyd’s done this journey before,” Mithos says, and suddenly it all clicks. The way higher than Lloyd-average score he got on Palmacosta Academy’s test. The way he’d somehow been more excited to see Sheena than Colette had been, completely unperturbed by the whole assassin gig. The quiet understanding for what Colette was going through even before she told him. His insistence on evacuating Palmacosta before they released the seals. The way he knew exactly what to do to get everyone out of Rodyle’s base alive. Things he’s said—so, so, so many things—that didn’t quite make a lot of sense or that he bailed out of too quickly.

She’s mad, briefly— _why wouldn’t he tell her??—_ but it occurs to her that time travel is not exactly an easy thing to explain, so perhaps she can forgive him. She can’t really worry about it now, while she’s talking to Mithos, anyway.

Mithos is here, and he is asking for help, and…

Undoubtedly, Lloyd has decided to do this journey over because there are people he wants to save and couldn’t figure out how to. Undoubtedly, one of those people is Mithos.

So.

“Lloyd… says Martel doesn’t stay? That this won’t be permanent?” Colette asks.

Mithos nods.

Colette hums, not entirely convinced it’s going to be that easy. She trusts Lloyd, of course she does, and highly doubts Mithos is lying to manipulate her, right now—she thinks if he really didn’t want to give her a choice about this, he would have just taken her away already—but… There’s just, one thing.

“And… you’re _okay_ with Martel not staying?” Colette asks.

Mithos is silent for a long moment, eyes fixed out the window, watching the falling snow in the warm glow of the streetlamps. Colette’s gotten good enough at watching and reading people that she sees the way grief settles on his too-still shoulders, hears the sigh he does not need to let out because he does not need to breathe to begin with.

“No,” Mithos admits, voice quiet. “But… If nothing else, Lloyd says, for certain, that I will get the chance to talk to her before she goes. And I want to talk to her. I do.” He smiles, something a little too sharp, a little too desperate, but Colette cannot exactly blame him. It’s been four thousand years since he’s last heard his sister’s voice. “Even if I do not get to keep her… I cannot go on without hearing her voice just once more.”

No, Colette cannot blame him for that.

“Okay,” she says.

Mithos’ attention snaps to her, eyes wide in disbelief. Saying nothing, he takes a step towards her, squinting as he reads her face. If he is looking for apprehension, he will find none. Colette smiles politely at him.

“…are you _sure_?” Mithos asks.

Colette nods. “Yes. If Lloyd says she does not stay, then I trust him,” she explains. She clutches her hands before her heart, feeling somewhat earnest as she tacks on: “And… I guess I want to help you.”

Mithos flinches away from that, lips curling into a snarl. Colette isn’t sure why he’s upset so she doesn’t press it. It doesn’t matter. She’s made her mind.

“Can I write Lloyd a note, though?” Colette asks.

“Lloyd’s done this before, he’ll know what your absence means,” Mithos spits.

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Colette admits. “But I don’t want him to worry…”

Mithos glares at her like she’s being completely absurd, but Colette holds her ground, her best pleading face on. Watching this immortal god-child break under the weight of her puppy-dog eyes is more satisfying than it should be.

“Fine,” Mithos relents. “Make it quick.”

The fact that he does not move to stop her is only more points in his favor, more reason to believe that this isn’t a completely horrible decision.

\- - -

When Colette opens her eyes again, it’s with someone else at the forefront of her mind, the sensation much like watching birds outside the classroom window, a layer of glass between her and the rest of the world. It both like and unlike when her heart had been trapped under Mithos’ seal—like, because she feels her body move even though she does not tell it to; unlike, because the bonds are not as strong, and she’s quite certain if she tried hard enough it would be possible to wrest control of herself back.

Unlike, because this time it is not just her with no control, it is her after having passed control off to someone else.

She has a guest.

Martel.

Their souls press up against each other, like two streaks of wet paint running down paper, touching, but not-quite mixing, except at the edges. It’s strange. Not as unwanted as Colette had first thought the sensation might be. Martel’s soul is gentle, if confused and full of a yawning despair that makes Colette somewhat sick to touch. More than that, Colette can feel how little Martel wants to be here.

( _Maybe it’s selfish, to be comforted by that, but she’s comforted anyway._ )

‘ _Sorry,’_ whispers a voice, from somewhere in Colette’s bloodstream.

 _It’s okay,_ Colette assures her guest. _It’s only temporary._

Martel does not feel reassured— _funny, that she can feel Martel’s emotions as if they are her own_ —but at this point Mithos has grabbed their hand to help them step out of the pod, and Martel abruptly stops thinking about all things that are not her little brother. Their feet touch down on dark blue glass that pulses intermittently brighter, and Martel squeezes her brother’s hand like she does not want to let go, even though there are a million disquieting feelings swirling under that. Colette does her best not to drown in all of that.

( _In another world, another timeline, Mithos would stand in this moment dressed as someone who is-but-is-not himself, as the man he calls Yggdrasill, leader of Cruxis, but right now he simply stands as Mithos, Martel’s little brother._ )

“Martel…?” Mithos asks, clearly nervous, but also hopeful, searching Colette’s face to see his sister in it.

Colette is suddenly and thoroughly aware of just how _tired_ Mithos is. The thinness of his face, the bags under his eyes, the way he holds himself—stubborn and chin high as always, as Martel has always remembered—but there is such _exhaustion_ on his shoulders, such _rigidness_. And more than that—the angelic stillness that only comes from a being who does not need to breathe to exist. Colette is used to seeing it on Mithos, but Martel is not, and it unsettles Martel to her very core, shakes her and breaks her heart and Colette trembles under the weight of it all, as the guest in her soul has to come to grips with what her little brother has become and reconcile it with the bright-eyed idealistic child she once knew.

“Mithos…” Martel says with Colette’s voice.

And Colette does not think her voice sounds any different, not to her ears, but maybe there’s something in the way Martel shapes the word or maybe Mithos just can _feel_ it, because he lights up, easily as bright and full of joy as he had been on those days and nights laughing with Genis by the fire—still a pale ghost when compared to the joy and careless smile that had graced his face when Kratos had staggered home slightly bruised but grinning, smushed but still edible sweetcakes produced from the folds of his cloak and he would not say where he got them but this was a luxury they had not had in so long and—

Colette staggers away from the schism in her mind, though her body remains upright and firmly planted under Martel’s control. The memories are gone as fast as they came but just the lingering taste of them is overwhelming. A life that Colette should not be privy to. Loved ones Martel must mourn for, even though they are all still alive.

( _Are they, though? Or are they all just ghosts?_ )

“It’s… good to see you,” Mithos says, and though he smiles there is guilt in the corners of his eyes, guilt that Colette would never have noticed but that Martel knows very well. Mithos squeezes her hand as if in apology and Martel sighs, long and deep.

She wishes this could be enough, but.

The memories, again—Kratos bleeding trembling too broken to cry on this very floor “ _I lost them I lost them both_ ”—Yuan pacing blindingly angry “ _I loved her too, Mithos, but is this not too far”—_ Mithos as himself and as not-himself, standing hands reached up towards her, “ _Please just a little longer, just wait a little more_ ”—

Martel cannot allow this.

She pulls Colette’s hand away from Mithos, turns Colette’s face away and closes her eyes against a list of horrors four thousand years long.

“Mithos, what have you _done_?” she asks.

There is a silence, a silence in which Colette tries to keep her head up above the wild currents roiling through her soul, a silence in which Martel knows her little brother’s mind is churning, gears turning to keep up with her accusation. Mithos is a smart boy. He is much more than a boy, now, and if there is one thing that has not decayed in all of these years it is his mind.

But Martel knows she has asked too much of him, not given him enough to work with, so when he laughs his little confused laugh—shorter than it normally is, the edge softened by exhaustion—it is only on cue.

“…What do you mean?” Mithos asks.

Martel breathes and sets herself against the weight of despair, while Colette sits in the back of their currently-shared mind and tries to decide if she should help bear that weight or just stay out of it. Martel explains: “I’ve been watching, this whole time—”

She does not finish before Mithos understands.

“Oh,” he says, and then he laughs. Sharp and somewhat frantic, short and desperate. “That’s. Aha. So that’s why- Ha. Haha. That’s why Lloyd said—”

Colette watches as Martel’s understanding of this situation is suddenly shoved off-kilter, feels what Martel thought she knew get ripped suddenly from her grasp. Martel swings her attention rapidly to her little brother, watching him laugh and rake his hair out of his face, clarity in his eyes to match the despair in his mouth. Colette watches as Martel does, a bystander as Martel tries to keep up, Martel more startled by this display than Colette is.

“What?” Martel asks.

Colette thinks perhaps she should explain—‘ _If you can, then please!’_ Martel shoots at her and Colette reels, having forgotten Martel is as aware of her thoughts as she is of Martel’s. Martel’s annoyance pushes against her, and Colette hastily tries to straighten her thoughts into a coherent explanation, but Mithos beats her to it.

“That’s why you don’t want to stay, then,” Mithos says, letting his hand fall away from his face and his hair fall back into his eyes. He says it with resignation, with acceptance, with the relief of finally understanding the answer to a question that has bothered him for a while, even though clearly the answer is not one he likes. “You…” But instead of explaining, he leans in cautiously, earnestly, a question pinched in his tired eyes. “You really can’t forgive me for what I’ve done?”

Martel hesitates. And she thinks it over.

“…some of it, maybe,” she admits, and cold horror wraps slowly around Colette as Martel admits to herself that though sacrificing hundreds in the name of offering a body to one dead soul is a horrible, horrible thing… She likely would have done the same, had the roles been swapped. ‘ _Sorry,_ ’ she whispers but Colette doesn’t answer, trying to wade through the sickness that churns inside of her, because _she could be here, lifeless and unwilling, and she doesn’t want to think about that._

“But?” Mithos presses, dragging his sister out of her fretting over Colette, which is honestly a relief.

Martel’s mind realigns, snaps back to the problem at hand. She scrunches Colette’s face up in a scowl at her brother, sickness and despair bubbling at the back of her throat. “You’ve done so many unspeakable, _unnecessary_ things,” she says, carefully, words enunciated clearly in her anger. “The Desians. The ranches. The _Summon Spirits—_ ”

“I know,” Mithos says, quiet.

“You didn’t need to do all of that simply to resurrect me.”

“I know.”

Mithos’ eyes remain fixed on his sister, resolute. There is no regret on his face, no remorse, and that’s the hardest thing Martel finds to reconcile. The certainty that he would make all of these same choices a second time, all of these horrible, horrible choices. Something like love curdles within the piece of Colette’s chest that doesn’t currently belong to her, its old and brittle claws still wrapped around a tired heart, not quite wanting to let go even as it spoils. Martel heaves air into Colette’s lungs with all her exhaustion and disappointment, but even as she lets them and the breath holding them back out she finds no peace.

“Why?” she asks of her little brother, hoping to understand what she still does not.

“I was trying to create a world where we’d all be equal,” Mithos answers simply, as if it could possibly be as simple as that.

Martel’s bitterness pulls Colette’s mouth into a sneer that her muscles are not used to making. “You know that’s not what this is,” she spits, hands too small for her clenched tightly at the sides of the body she is borrowing.

“It could have been,” Mithos argues.

“Mithos—” Martel begins, but cannot quite find the rest of her words, precariously balanced between fury and despair. The effort which Martel is exerting to make sure she does not give herself over completely to one or the other stirs something sick and horrible in Colette’s stomach and she shakes with it, wondering when it will end and if this is really what Mithos wanted out of the conversation. More visions of memories that do not belong to her swim in Colette’s mind as Martel grapples with it all—Yuan in chains, Mithos bright-eyed and speaking too-fast as he laid out plans to stop an endless war, a promise to the Summon Spirits to bring peace to a dying world; the final contrasted against a memory that _is_ Colette’s, Celsius’ bleeding anger at how Mithos betrayed her and the rest of the Spirits, an image that is immediately swallowed by Martel’s despair and Colette shies away from it all, dizzy.

Mithos gently takes them by the hands, and even in the midst of the storm that rages in her heart, once his fingers wrap around Colette’s Martel is squeezing back, clinging to him as if that alone could resurrect the spectre of a boy he once was.

“Martel, please,” Mithos whispers. “It’s okay if you’re angry. It’s okay if you’re sad. But… Please. Can you forget about it, for just a minute…? I just… Wanted to spend some time with you, before this is all over.”

Colette notes the curious way he chooses to phrase that, but Martel notes it and latches on, cold understanding of how her brother works filling the lungs she currently shares with Colette. For a moment Colette cannot breathe, and it’s like her stomach has been ripped from her body and tossed to the planet far below—but then everything snaps back into place with a chilly kind of acceptance, and Martel breathes, careful.

“I can’t stay forever, Mithos,” she whispers, as she squeezes her brother’s hands.

“I know.”

“We’re ghosts, Mithos.”

“I know,” Mithos repeats, and he smiles, unburdened. “That’s why… Well, I have an idea, but…”

“Let me hear it,” Martel says, with no hesitation.

So he tells her.

And Martel—though it saddens her—clearly likes it very much.

And Colette—well, she doesn’t really understand it, and she’s pretty certain Lloyd’s not going to like it, but… what she _does_ know makes her think this could work, actually. ( _Lloyd is a gentle, bleeding heart, but even if he wants to he cannot save a soul who does not want to be saved._ )

“…Would it be alright if you stayed until Lloyd got here?” Mithos asks, once they’re done hashing out the details.

Martel hesitates, but Colette assures her she’s fine with that, so finally Martel puts aside all of her anger and her sadness, knowing that Mithos doesn’t really need that, right now, even if he deserves it, and she nods.

“Yes,” Martel says. “It would be.”

\- - -

There are no traps in the Tower of Salvation. No angels that try to stop them, no Pronyma, no means nor reason for Zelos to pull his fake betrayal stunt ( _they decided they could leave the aionis to Kratos_ ). In fact—they don’t even have to take the back route in. They can waltz right in the front door.

It’s clear Mithos is not trying to slow them. He is simply waiting for their arrival.

Lloyd isn’t sure if that’s better or worse.

On the long, silent journey to their destination—though the journey is more silent than it is long, which frankly Lloyd hates—Lloyd tells his companions the truth of what he has been doing. That he has done this journey before, many times before. There is initial doubt from all except Zelos, since Lloyd told Zelos last night, but Genis and Raine believe him almost immediately ( _they know him better than he knows himself, sometimes, so of course they know he would not lie and of course they are delighted to have an explanation as to why he’s been so Off_ ) and Sheena believes him only a step behind them, unsurprisingly, since he revealed much too much knowledge he shouldn’t have in order to make sure Corrine remained safe and alive. They cheer in his favor from Sheena’s shoulder, ( _of course it makes sense; that must have been how he knew how to save me!_ ). Regal admits he’s heard stranger and Presea does what no one else did and asks:

“Why?”

Presea’s question is short and simple, but it still feels like a mountain on Lloyd’s shoulders.

“Because I wanted to save everyone,” Lloyd says, and it condemns his actions as much as it excuses them because everyone standing around him understands that by _everyone,_ he means _including Mithos._

They stand, now, before the door to the chamber where Mithos waits with Colette, with Martel’s soul, with the great seed. The door is shut, but Lloyd knows it is not sealed. He will have no difficulty opening it. Lloyd swallows, as he stares at the door. Makes his decision.

“Just… let me talk to him,” he says, and he does not need to say who he means.

“Lloyd,” Zelos says, in warning. Lloyd recalls their conversation, last night, the things he promised, and—that hasn’t changed. It really hasn’t.

He will not take any more unnecessary risks for Mithos, no. But all the same he will listen, if Mithos expresses a desire to stop.

He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with conviction. “I still meant what I said, Zelos,” he promises, smile bright as he turns to Zelos. “If it’s you—any of you—or him, I’m not picking him. But… trust me when I say he’s different, this time. Something’s different. And if I give up on him now, without even _trying_ …?” He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. I _have_ to give him the chance.”

He looks to the rest of his companions, wondering if they’ll challenge him, but no one seems to want to. Genis even looks relieved. Lloyd smiles, somewhat more at ease. Though, he should have expected this, he supposes. After all, they’ve all followed him this far, haven’t they?

“So… let’s not fight him, right away,” Lloyd continues. “Colette’s not hurt, and Martel won’t stay, so there’s no serious threat there—and all of you _read_ her note! She says he _asked_ her! He’s never done that before!!” Maybe he’s hopeful. Maybe he shouldn’t be. He clings to it, anyway. “So—maybe things can work out. I at least want to see what he has to say.”

He waits, but there’s no objections.

He opens the door.

The first thing Lloyd notices is that Colette is hugging Mithos, tight, and it looks like maybe he doesn’t like that, which makes Lloyd wonder if it actually is just Colette hugging him and not Martel, which would make sense. It’s over before he can ask and he thinks asking would probably be mean, and then Colette is bounding towards Lloyd in a gait that is entirely her own ( _as, too, is the way she almost trips over her own feet_ ), beaming. Mithos looks like he might be flustered, but Colette’s thrown herself into Lloyd’s arms before he can really decipher Mithos’ expression, and Lloyd catches her on reflex and forgets all about Mithos.

He squeezes Colette, tight, grateful that she is alright even though he knew she would be. She squeezes him back, tighter, like she’s glad he’s here, glad _she’s_ here, and so he doesn’t let go until she does, until she’s pulling away with a flurry of: “I’m sorry I worried you!! I’m fine really, I’m really fine.”

Lloyd laughs at how earnest she is, squeezes her forearms because he doesn’t quite want to let go of her. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he says, ignoring Mithos for the moment. Colette is more important.

“You knew I would be,” Colette counters, somewhat playful.

“Still,” Lloyd says.

Colette pulls away from him and he lets her. She turns her beaming smile towards Mithos, excitement and oblivious ( _or, feigning obliviousness, it’s hard to tell with Colette_ ) to how he’s scowling. “Anyway!” she says, brightly. “Mithos had something he wanted to talk to you about, right Mithos?”

It’s so bright and carefully needling like Colette can be when she really wants to, and Lloyd almost laughs as he watches Mithos get caught up in a trick that Colette has pulled on every single one of the rest of them. There is no escaping, when she starts the conversation like this. No escaping, because she has already gathered up everyone else’s expectations and placed them on the table before you, has already tied you down with an obligation that you cannot slip away from without being _incredibly_ rude, so you have to answer. And it _works_ , on Mithos. Just as well as it has worked on everyone else. He grumbles a little and glares at her with a kind of casual malice that probably only someone four thousand years old could master, a deadly promise delivered mostly with childlike annoyance.

“I had something I wanted to _ask_ ,” Mithos corrects, voice echoing high and clear in the empty space around them that hums only with machinery and the power of the great seed, suspended above and behind Mithos, casting a pale green light on the blue glass below them and the yellow walls of the room. “A question for Lloyd.”

“Alright,” Lloyd says, grateful that Mithos is not, in fact, just immediately trying to pick a fight. He’s off script now and that’s terrifying but exhilarating at the same time, because maybe this time, maybe finally. “Let’s hear it.”

“I just need to get one thing clear: from here on out, _my_ ending—It doesn’t change, does it? It’s always the same?” Mithos’ eyes, blue and cold, drill into Lloyd. Everything is silent and still, waiting for Lloyd’s answer.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s always- you always.” He doesn’t finish. He can’t finish. “It’s the same.”

Mithos nods, like he’d expected that. He considers something, but only briefly, before his eyes squeeze shut and he exhales.

“Then I yield.”

Three short words, incredibly profound despite their—or maybe because _of_ —their shortness. It’s so simple, so easy. A declaration that Mithos does not wish to fight. Lloyd had hoped for this, but he had not quite expected it, he had frankly expected that despite everything Martel’s rejection of her little brother would still send Mithos past tipping-point, that he would be so full of his despair and grief that he would not even be able to touch his sanity let alone hold onto it. Instead, it seems, whatever conversation Mithos had with Martel only invigorated him, sharpened his determination, and his resolve.

Not that Lloyd is any less surprised.

“What?” he says, before he thinks about it.

Mithos laughs. It is not kind. “Well, what am I supposed to do, Lloyd?” he demands. “Fight? _Die?_ I’ll pass, I think.” Sharp humor becomes exhaustion, voice quiet and shoulders slumped. “I’m tired, Lloyd. I’m so tired of playing this game.”

“Mithos…” Lloyd whispers, heaviness weighing on his shoulders. He did not wish to fight Mithos, no, but neither does he quite know what to do with Mithos’ surrender.

“I know a losing battle when I see one,” is what Mithos answers, still with that bitter little laugh. Lloyd remembers again— _vividly_ —that Mithos once had access to the same power that Origin has granted Lloyd. How many times did he try, for Martel? How many times did he turn the clock back? And yet, Martel is still dead. “Besides, you asked me if I would be satisfied living in this world without my sister. My answer is still no.” Mithos shakes his head, mouth smiling but eyes pinched with grief. “How could I? What else is there for me?”

Not a single one of Lloyd’s companions has said anything thus far, because Lloyd requested he talk to Mithos and as much as they would all like to take the opportunity to shred Mithos for the ways he has hurt them all, they also understand that Mithos stands in a somewhat precarious balance, right now. Do they dare be the person that starts an unnecessary battle? Do they dare strike up a flame when Mithos has already tried to put it out? Do they _need_ him to see the error of his ways, or is it enough if it just ends, and ends peacefully?

However Mithos’ last words, there, that bitter little _“what else is there for me”_ strikes up a fire of terrible pain in Genis’ heart, because _is he not enough, would he never be enough?_ Of course he understands that he is young and Mithos is not and the weight of all Mithos is and the grief he bears is too much for him to realistically take on but he’s still _upset,_ regardless. He clenches his fists and bites his tongue, knowing that if he tries to speak it will be too much, too embarrassing, and everyone will judge, and—

“Oh, Genis,” Mithos says, and at least if nothing else his voice is _sad_. There’s just enough fondness in it that twists Genis’ heart and that’s not fair! “Genis, don’t look at me like that. I enjoyed our time together, I _really_ did. But you… You deserve someone so much better than me. I can’t stay.”

Genis sniffles, says nothing, still certain that anything and everything he wants to say isn’t something he can say, around all these people, not brave enough to get it out in spite of them.

Zelos scoffs, anyway, fills the space up with his anger.

“So, what?” he demands of Mithos. “You just gonna ask us to kill you, then? That’s it, congratulations, we won? No fight just clean suicide? You make me fucking sick. How could you do that to Lloyd!”

“Zelos” Lloyd tries to interject, as much as he appreciates it ( _he thinks of Mithos’ blood on his hands on his sword on everything, tries not to think about it, refuses to think about it, not this time, not again_ ), because he doesn’t think that’s fair, and he wonders for a brief, sick moment just how much of that is Zelos projecting or—

“Zelos,” Colette says, firmer, pulling Lloyd out of his thoughts. Her voice is sharp, full of love. “It’s not like that at all! Mithos, just- just tell them. Please.”

Mithos makes a face, like he still doesn’t appreciate Colette telling him what to do, but there’s no real weight behind his glare. He sighs. Turns his attention back to Lloyd, and something burns in his eyes, something that Lloyd understands and hates even before Mithos speaks.

“I can’t stay in this world, Lloyd,” Mithos says. “I already told you that. Derris-Kharlan, and Cruxis… They can’t stay, either.” He smiles, tired, but somewhat gentle. “You understand, right?”

Lloyd does.

Lloyd _hates_ it.

He fucking hates it.

“You can’t, Mithos, you _can’t_ ,” he pleads, but Mithos does not seem swayed or slowed down.

“I go,” Mithos says, high and clear. “Kratos stays.”

Lloyd clenches his fists and bites his tongue, eyes squeezed shut and head turned down as he tries to wrestle the tears out of his eyes, tries to wrest the fury out of his chest. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not _fair,_ why does someone still have to _go,_ and yet—

( _“Just tell him he can’t go,” he remembers, Mithos told him on a night weeks and weeks ago. “Just send Derris-Kharlan off without him.”_

_The worst part is he doesn’t think he could manage to send Derris-Kharlan away without Mithos noticing, without Mithos on it, because that’s not going to work on Mithos and that’s not fair, either. It’s what Mithos wants. It’s the compromise Mithos has given him. Isn’t it enough?_

_Why isn’t it enough?_ )

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, Lloyd?” Mithos presses, somewhat sharp. “To not have to kill me. For Kratos to stay. This- _this_ is what you wanted, right?”

Lloyd can’t stop his tears from falling, now. So he lets them, and he doesn’t look up at Mithos, and he admits: “…I wanted you to live in this world, too.”

The way Mithos laughs in response is proof of all the reasons that won’t work, could never work. The laugh is somewhat delirious, all the edges that had been absent from Mithos up until now, all the off-kilter insanity coming back in full force, asserting its presence in the shape of Mithos’ too-wide, too-furious grin. “Well!” he laughs, high and bright. “We can’t get everything we want, Lloyd!”

( _He wanted his sister back, wanted a perfect world, but that was broken in his hands the minute it was in his hands, and now he is left with but shattered pieces of something he wanted so badly but_ isn’t fucking getting, _so Lloyd has to deal with less than what he wants, too!_ )

The cruelty of this on Lloyd’s shoulders, the despair that after everything he worked for he’s still going to come just-short of grasping the full of it—it makes Lloyd’s blood boil, and his patience snap.

“So it’s fine, then?” he demands of Mithos, chewing on his rage and spitting it out between his teeth. “It’s fine that you’ll just condemn yourself to a slow and painful death out in space, somewhere, _alone_ —”

“Better me than Kratos,” Mithos spits.

And he’s right but also it’s _wrong_ to compare their lives like that, to trade one for another, and it’s still—

“It’s still _suicide_!” Lloyd screams, and he wants to bang his fist against the wall but he is unmoored, standing in the center of the room, the closest thing to punch one of his friends and obviously _that’s_ not an option.

“I died the same day Martel did,” Mithos says, slow and eloquent and clear, each word enunciated in his anger—no, his _conviction._ “I’m _already dead,_ Lloyd. I’m nothing more than a walking corpse. I might as well do something _useful_ with that, right?”

“But—” Lloyd protests, anyway.

Mithos doesn’t give him the chance.

“Unless you _want_ to fight, right now!” Mithos says, his words bright with sharp, uncaring promise. “I could die here, if you’d rather! _This_ could be my grave, instead!”

It’s too much, too deep, and Lloyd shies away from it, shies away from the curves of Mithos’ voice that are just like time and time and time again before, shies away from the brokenness and the insanity he has not seen in Mithos in a while, a long long long while, shies away and wonders if it is fair to even force a path upon Mithos that he does not wish to take. How can he even assume Mithos would let him, anyway? How could he even _think_ that Mithos would pick an ending that wasn’t his own, that wasn’t the one he wanted, was _okay_ with? He doesn’t want to live in the world Lloyd will build, when this is all over, and Lloyd cannot make him do that, though he thinks Mithos—much like Kratos—is a coward for running away.

But at least in death, he can be a hero, can’t he?

Is that enough?

Is the fact his blood is not on Lloyd’s hands ( _again_ ) enough?

“Someone has to be responsible for Cruxis,” Mithos continues, and it’s quieter, the insanity ebbing away but the resolve remaining firm. “Someone has to be, and it shouldn’t be Kratos. So I’ll go.”

Lloyd doesn’t answer, and in his silence, no one says anything else, none of them really understanding what Mithos is offering, none of them understanding why Lloyd hates it as much as he does. Lloyd started this journey because he was greedy, because he wanted to do right, wanted to save _everyone,_ but—

Traveling through time… isn’t the way to do that, is it?

Mithos has already proven everyone cannot be saved this way, because if that were possible, Martel would still be alive, and none of this would have happened.

Some mistakes you have to accept, reconcile, move on from.

Some mistakes you cannot simply do over.

“You have to let me go, Lloyd,” Mithos says, soft, like a plea. “You have to let me go.”

Lloyd squeezes his fists one last time, and then releases them. He inhales. Exhales. There’s a shift, in the world, at that exhale. A shift in Origin’s power inside of him. With that exhale he decides yes, alright, this? He can be satisfied with this. He’ll have to be satisfied with this. If he does the journey even one more time he is quite certain it will break him, and he got—lucky, with Mithos, this time. Managed to get a Mithos who was within spitting distance of sanity, instead of miles and miles away.

This has to be enough.

It has to be enough.

“Okay,” Lloyd says, and nothing more.

Mithos smiles.

He looks… relieved.

“Can you do me a favor, then?” he asks, and before Lloyd says yes, he reaches up to his collarbone, and pops his Cruxis crystal out of its key crest. “Don’t worry,” he says, to looks of shock this act is greeted with. “This won’t kill me. It’ll probably be a hundred years before my body clock even regulates itself. I just… don’t want to be burdened with the weight of its gift of immortality, not any longer.”

Lloyd stares at the crystal, suspended in midair between them. He places his right hand on the hilt of one of his swords, though he doesn’t yet draw, just grips it tight.

“…I suppose I can do it, if that would make you feel better,” Mithos admits, staring the crystal down. “But I’m afraid if it isn’t destroyed now, I won’t have the courage to destroy it later.”

Lloyd hesitates.

“Lloyd…” Genis says, quiet. The start of a plea Lloyd has heard a hundred times before, a plea that Genis does not say, now, but Lloyd hears anyway. _Help Mithos…_

Lloyd takes a deep breath. Draws his sword and slices the crystal clean in two with the same swipe. A sound like a bell rings out, but this time, at least, as the crystal clatters to the glass floor below, Mithos is still standing, solid and smiling, though clearly exhausted. He is not dead. He is not dying. He will not be fading away simply because Lloyd destroyed his last anchor to this world.

Mithos smiles, and Lloyd things the smile is thankful, even though Mithos does not voice his gratitude. All he does instead is reach out with his hand, and suddenly the Eternal Sword is there, brilliant and blinding. He plucks it from the air like its weight is familiar—of course it is, in his hands—and then looks to Lloyd in question.

“I’ll send you to Origin, then,” he says, and he does not shape it as a question, though the lilt of his voice is cautious. “You can handle the rest, as I presume you have before.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd nods, short.

“Hey, _you’re_ the guy who split the worlds to begin with!” Sheena shoots at Mithos, hands on her hips and glare like fire. “Shouldn’t _you_ be the one to fix it?”

Mithos just laughs. “What you do with the world now isn’t _any of my business,_ ” he says, sharp, like he finds incredible satisfaction in that notion, like he’s proud to be wiping his hands of it. It makes Lloyd’s stomach churn a little with anger, but he lets it be. “I’ve got things to do on this end, anyway, so you don’t need me down there.”

A second too late Lloyd realizes perhaps Mithos just doesn’t want to see his sister’s face on a Spirit who will not recognize him, and truthfully cannot blame him for that. So Lloyd keeps his mouth shut, as Origin’s power gathers around him and his companions, prepares to whisk them away.

Mithos’ following words are quiet, gentle, nearly lost under the roar of Origin’s power.

“ _Farewell, my shadow. You who stand at the end at the end of the path I chose not to follow._

_“Farewell, Lloyd.”_

\- - -

“I assume you won’t be asking to do this again,” Origin says, looking down at Lloyd. His tone is gentle, really, bordering just-on emotionless, except the cadence of his words is always so melodic it’s hard to really call it emotionless, because it is so nice to listen to him speak.

“Nah,” Lloyd says, and maybe he shouldn’t speak so casually to a being as powerful as Origin, but Origin does not seem to mind. “Thank you, though. For letting me try as many times as I did.”

Origin simply inclines his head, watching Lloyd with those deep golden eyes, weighing him, judging him. In the silence, Lloyd plunges the Eternal Sword into the ground at Origin’s feet. It’s symbolic, more than practical—the sword can be summoned and dismissed at Lloyd’s whim—but it makes Lloyd feel better, anyway. As he straightens, Origin hums, and Lloyd looks up at him again.

“Was this the ending you sought?” Origin asks.

Lloyd considers it, wonders if this is another test. He sighs, though, pretty sure he can’t get away with telling Origin a lie. That’s alright. He’s pretty sure he didn’t want to lie, anyway.

“No,” he admits. “But I’ve gotta stop at some point, right?” He laughs, kind of broken. Wonders if Mithos gave up, or if someone had to step in and make him. He wonders if it matters, if he knows. It probably doesn’t. “This will have to be good enough.”

“It is wise, knowing when to quit,” Origin concedes. He does not sound upset, or judgmental—but then, again, he does not sound much of anything, all emotion lost under the symphonic rise and fall of his voice. “And it is good, to not see you so unhappy as you were, the first time we agreed to do this.”

There is… love, actually, Lloyd thinks, singing out quiet but strong from the symphony in Origin’s voice. Lloyd remembers that the stories say Origin had loved Mithos, as well. Lloyd wonders if he’s worthy enough to share that love.

He sends a smile at Origin, a farewell. “Thank you, again,” he says. “For everything.”

“If you need me again, my power is but a call away,” Origin reminds him. “Good luck, in the world you wish to heal. Know that myself and the other Spirits are with you.”

He vanishes, as does the sword, and Lloyd turns on his heel and back to the tall, green trees of Torent forest. His father waits for him, pushing off from the tree he was resting against while he waited for Lloyd. Kratos starts to uncross his arms, catches himself, crosses them again. He looks much like a fish out of water, completely out of his element, and his eyes don’t quite meet Lloyd’s—but then, Lloyd cannot remember a time Kratos has ever made lengthy eye contact with anyone, so maybe it’s just a Kratos thing.

“You could have talked to him too, you know,” Lloyd says, gently nudging his father in the ribs. “I’m sure he would have appreciated it.”

Kratos opens his mouth, but he is scowling, like he doesn’t know what to say. He is saved from having to say anything but a sudden shift in the mana. Kratos goes very still. Lloyd shivers. In unison, father and son lift their gaze to the sky, though this is not something they can see, only feel.

Derris-Kharlan has left the atmosphere.

“Is it alright?” Lloyd asks, quietly. “That I let him go?”

Kratos hesitates, then answers, with a tired laugh. “I don’t think you could have stopped him.”

Lloyd laughs as well, brighter, dropping his gaze from the sky. “Yeah, probably not,” he agrees. He looks expectantly to his father again, nervous and excited all at once, glad to see Kratos _still here,_ with Derris-Kharlan _long gone._ A part of him feels bad, that Kratos did not even get to _choose_ to stay, but… it was not Lloyd that made him stay, was it? Mithos took that choice from the both of them. “What about you?” Lloyd asks, though, still a little worried. “You alright, Kratos?”

Kratos squeezes his arms, briefly, then lets go of the tension. After a long moment, he turns to his son.

“Unprepared,” he admits, with a sigh. He smiles, though. “But happy to be here.”

( _Every day he is here, the more and more glad he is he did not even get the chance to run away._ )

Lloyd beams.

“Me too.”

And that? Is enough.


End file.
